wordsecho with the ghostsof almost wholly-lost worlds but for them nothing remains at all—nothing words holdthough only airily the fragile bonesof yesterday loose as breath but holding yet and tightening

To AprilChaucer, Eliot, Millay: Poets have many things to sayTo April. What would I say to it?Nothing—it is a construct.Yes, the moon turns,The earth too (to dust),The sun burnsOut days, but I distrustAll timeframes, the rigidCollars of clock timeDripping days digit by digit,And the natural, cycling kindAppearing to repeat, like April,Like Friday, all coming alive,But actually being new and making older, a millGrinding all things into grime,Grimmer and gaunter grainsOf being—chains.And after allI guess that’s what I have to say to April.

Concerning CERNSmash it, mash it, bake it in a pie—White coats, clipboards, standing by;Crash it, bash it, stand it on its head—Smaller things are easier said;Whack it, smack it, give it a thump—Measure each mote of the insect’s jump.

Nameless, that is what I must be.But even “I” is a name, and even “be”.Anything which only is,I must be as anything which only is.

first thought: “which is like this”

second thought: “which is in this way”

third thought: “which only is”, might be called the final thought because it was the chosen one, but that too is a name.

A poem to be called “Final”

Nameless, really,Slip your name, the heavy breath of others on your birth, the heaviness of your own thoughts, of “your” and “own”. There will always be thoughts,But let them rise like bubbles from the deepAnd free themselves in empty air, leaving the surface calm, the water more fully water.